The Sins of Matru

I must say, as I reflect on the man, he did seem to enjoy getting blown! The only passion I ever drew out of him was during the few times I cajoled him onto the bed and swallowed his cock. It was not long, but unusually thick and I was challenged to get it in my mouth. Only then did he speak (really more like chanted), soft melodic words as he lay on his back, his gorgeous cocoa-colored prick lodged in my jaw. I couldn't know the definition but I knew the meaning of his words. His cum was sweet and rich, and I swallowed it with great delight.

The caste system, devised over two thousand years ago by Hindu priests, is still in effect in most rural communities even today. In 1946 (a year away from Indian independence) it was still the ruling commandments that civilized Indians lived by, even in cultured and urbane cities such as Bombay. Even so, there was a large grassroots movement among the Untouchables to resist the degradation and humiliation they endured every day of their pathetic lives. Untouchables in the forties could not even walk in the shadow of a high caste person, and had to wear bells to warn of their approach. A year earlier the city had granted land to the Untouchables to build their community. The upper-caste Kshatriya wanted the barren, miserable plot for a threshing ground and so attempted to persuade the Untouchables to drop their claim. I had no way of knowing that Matru was among the new militia of Achuta that resisted.

I sat in my rooms that hot August night, reading the newest London dispatches. I could see the cloud of dirty grey smoke waft across the distant spires and minarets of the city. At first I thought it a rain cloud until I smelled the acrid, foul odor of burning wood and...flesh. Ranvir Sena, the private armies of the Brahmans, had set fire to the Untouchable village, dozens of innocent children and women were trapped and burning to death in their wretched hovels, their exit blocked by wooden beams and sailcloth. The wail and shriek of the survivors carried across Bombay in the still, humid air.

I thought of Matru. I knew he was part of the Untouchable village. He often asked my permission to take unwanted leftovers and discarded supplies to his friends in the shabby district he called home. I leapt to my feet, not knowing what I could do or how I could help, but knowing I had to find my...find my what? Friend?

As I ran south to the rivers edge, I came to the great swarm of unwashed coming towards me in the opposite direction. Clutching babies and dragging the wounded, they appeared like rats fleeing a sinking ship. I searched their soot-covered and awe-struck faces, seeking Matru. I had to find him. I turned a corner to avoid a blazing cart with a shaggy brown buffalo still hitched to the leads, snorting and rearing, struggling to get loose. His matted coat was smoking with the intense heat. I saw fear in the tormented beasts eyes, the same fear in the eyes of the Untouchables. I didnt know even then that Matru was in the middle of the inferno, striking out at his attackers, blindly swinging a broken broom, his eyes and face singed by the incredible heat of the conflagration. I saw him in the market court before me, wretched, broken and bleeding, still hanging fast to his useless pole. Rushing to him, I shouted his name and he collapsed into my arms.

I dont remember how I got him back to the compound. I recall finding a stretch of linen that I lay his battered body on, and I must have dragged him the full two miles. How odd it must have seemed, the tall blonde European dragging a smelly hulk of rags and pulp through the alleys of the city and through the ornate iron gate of the Viceroys residence. Lifting Matru onto my bed, I ran for the wash basin. He was scorched and bleeding, but I could find no broken bones. The white washcloth turned black with the dirt and ash that I rinsed from his tender, reddened skin. He moaned and opened his eyes. I held his calloused hand in mine as I wiped the cinders out of his eyes. He smiled weakly at me as sleep came like a blessing to him.

He dozed fitfully for ten hours. I massaged ointment into his wounds as he slept. He would occasionally wake, my soothing voice and tender ministrations lulling him back into slumber. And so it went into the next morning when he finally regained consciousness. I held him nude in my arms as he woke, my hands stroking his chest and soothing his hot brow with a cool damp cloth. He reached out to me and I held him close as he cried.

You have saved me, surely as I am here now. I owe you my pitiful life, Richard. He said in a deep, raspy voice, last nights smoke and flame having irritated his vocal chords.

Shhh, my lovely Matru, rest now. I couldnt leave you there. I can never leave you, ever again. You mean more to me than you will ever understand. I whispered back. He had called me Richard! I rejoiced, despite the horrible suffering, in the face of the incredible loss of life. I rejoiced for the great miracle that is Matru, lying in my bed, using my Christian name!

Matru ate, and slept again. His wounds were manageable, and I cared for him the rest of the afternoon. That night, he felt well enough to sit with me on the verandah. He wore a pair of my trousers, a soft royal blue silk shirt and the inevitable sandals. He appeared undeniably human...certainly not like an Untouchable, an animal to be kicked and spit upon by his superiors. I felt his anger and rage, and marveled at a culture that could make such a beautiful and extraordinary man into a beast of burden: no better than the smoking ox tied to his flaming cart. He sipped on a fruit juice as I drank from a flute of French champagne. He was forbidden alcohol by the same religion that sentenced him to a life of degradation. I held his hand in mine. His eyes looked into mine in a new and exciting way. I felt a change in our relationship. He knew by my actions last night that I respected him, and valued him enough to risk my own life. He was proven worthy of my love, and he was finally ready to accept it. He stood silently, and pulling on my hand, led me to the teak bed.

We lay next to each other, rejoicing in our union, my milky-white skin contrasting with the rich golden sheen of his body. I stroked his silky chest, covered in soft, shiny black hairs. He reached for mine, and ran his fingers through the golden rings that spread across my chest and concentrated in a soft mound between my pectorals. He kept smiling at me, a big silly grin. I couldnt help but laugh at his marvelous change in attitude. I saw the love and adoration in his eyes. He must have felt it from me, too. I hugged him and he responded enthusiastically. His strong arms enveloped me; his hands explored my back, searching until they came to my soft, willing ass. I felt his fingers slip between my cheeks and brush against my pucker. How aggressive he had suddenly become! I thrilled at the thought of him inside me.

Matru slipped off the side of the bed, and pulled me over to him. I lay with my legs over the edge as he went down on me. His warm mouth was thrilling, his tongue running the length of my penis then slipping over the tender head to take me fully into his throat. He sucked me with passion, sending chills through my body as I felt the pressure building in my balls. His head bobbed vigorously on my cock, until I could hold back no longer. A steady stream of my cum shot into Matrus mouth, volley after hot volley of sticky jism hit the back of his hungry maw.

He swallowed hard. Richard, You are inside me now, you are a part of me, and I will always keep you with me! He gasped, pulling his head off my engorged member. I am going to make you mine, too! He pulled me closer to the edge of the bed and drew my legs up onto his shoulders. He pushed his hips against my ass, spreading my legs wide. I was totally in his control, as he teased the head of his mighty dick on my asshole.

Matru, I have been waiting for this moment. I need you in me, I want you to fuck me... now, please! I cried out in ecstasy as his cock pressed past the tight ring of muscle, lodging itself in my rectum. His heavy, pendulous balls slapped on my ass as he drove his dick in and out of my outraged asshole. The tables had turned; my submissive servant had become my ardent lover. The glorious thickness of his dick spread me open, expanded my ass until I was entirely filled with his manhood. The feeling of fullness, the feeling of completion was overwhelming. I whimpered into Matrus ear as he assaulted my ass with his potent staff. Yes... Oh YES, Matru...Do it! I need you in me, I need to feel you cum inside me. I LOVE YOU, Matru! Did he hear me? Did he understand what I had just said? Did he realize the truth?

His fucking became more intense, his plump cock ripping at my bum until I thought I would pass out. I held on to the bedding, my knuckles white as I clutched the soft cotton blanket under me. Matru held my ankles and drove his impaler into me with vigor. His face was beatific, an expression of absolute pleasure in his strong, handsome features. I looked up into his face as his cock swelled inside me, his balls tightened and he discharged a torrent of creamy white cum into my ass. It filled me, overflowing my ass and leaking out from around his cock, running between my legs onto the blanket. Matru collapsed on my torso, his head nuzzled in my neck, and we remained linked together on the edge of the bed for several minutes. Eventually his cock softened, and fell out of my aggravated ass. I smelled the fragrant spiciness of his skin, tasted the salty perspiration on his neck as we hugged each other to sleep.

Kensington is a very attractive quarter in London. Rows of elegant granite townhouse circle attractive parks and walkways are lined with ivy-covered iron trellises. Matru returned to England with me in 1947, and I had him educated at Beringhamshire. As the years went on, the sight of an Indian on the quiet streets of Kensington became more and more common. He eventually became one of the top property agents in all of England, responsible for the sale of many country estates and manors to wealthy Arabs and rock-stars. He was always charming and stylish in his Savile Row suits and Repp-stripe cravats. His impeccable English was finer and more elegant than most British subjects. We lived happily and discreetly in my home on Grisham Court until his death in 1998.

Now, I pray for the earth to swallow me so I can be with him again. I long to feel his calloused hand in mine, touch his scarred cheek and press my lonely lips to his.